


Infinite Regress (The Origin Stories Remix)

by pellucid



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pellucid/pseuds/pellucid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a prophet, and prophets are always special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Regress (The Origin Stories Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twilight of the Idols](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/37654) by nnaylime. 



> A few timeline clarifications might help. As best I can determine from the BSG Wiki, the 13th Tribe (of Cylons) left Kobol more than 4000 years prior to the events of the miniseries. The 12 Tribes (of humans) left to go to the Colonies approximately 2000 years before the miniseries; this is also the time of Athena's death. In between, 3600 years before the events of the miniseries (and therefore at least 400 years after the exodus of the 13th Tribe and 1600 years before the exodus of the other 12), Pythia lived and wrote her book.
> 
> Written in July 2009 for [bsg_remix](http://bsg-remix.livejournal.com/). A remix of [Twilight of the Idols](http://innerdiction.livejournal.com/43835.html#cutid1) by nnaylime. Beta by gabolange.

**

_All this has happened before. All this will happen again._

Afterwards, Pythia would wonder whether she had been born special, or if being chosen had made her so. Later still, when she understood faith and time, she would recognize the question as unanswerable, a puzzle of causality only slightly more complex than the clichéd chicken and egg. Whether through accident or destiny, she was Pythia. She was a prophet, and prophets are always special.

There were stories, usually passed from older siblings and cousins to their unsuspecting younger counterparts, of children snatched away by the priests. "Be careful on your dedication day, or they'll grab you and make you stay in the temple forever," taunted the older and wiser children. Pythia knew better. She had been to her brother Nikos's dedication to Ares: there were boring prayers, and twelve different kinds of incense, and by the end, Pythia was very tired of standing. But the priests took no children.

Still, sometimes she woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat, her heart racing, the smell of incense lingering in her nostrils, and the taste of something bitter on her tongue.

The morning of her eighth birthday, her mother helped her put on her dedication dress, and then brushed Pythia's hair until it shone. "From this day forward I will serve the Lord Athena," Pythia said to the mirror, practicing her lines for the ceremony. 

Behind Pythia, her mother paled, her fingers digging into Pythia's shoulders. Her mother knelt and turned Pythia around on the chair so they were face to face. "You are very special," her mother whispered. "We love you so much. Never forget that." She always wondered how her mother had known: forewarning, or simply faith.

Later, at the temple, there were prayers and incense, and Pythia remembered all her lines. Her father looked proud, her brother bored, and her mother terrified. Just as the ceremony finished, a heaviness fell on the temple. Others would call it a hush as they told the story, but Pythia herself always remembered it as music, as the resolving of discord into harmony. 

Athena herself swept into the temple, sending the ceremony into disarray. The goddess looked at Pythia, smiled, and held out her hand. Perhaps Athena nodded, almost imperceptibly, at Pythia's mother, or perhaps the acknowledgment was a trick of memory. Pythia took the goddess's hand and was snatched away.

**

_And so it was that the goddess Athena sprang fully formed from the head of her father, Zeus. Made, not begotten._

Athena was smaller than Pythia might have expected, had she thought about it. A goddess should be imposing and impressive, more than human. Athena, instead, was of average height, build, and beauty. Only her voice was extraordinary, and when she spoke, people listened and obeyed. The first time Pythia heard her speak, she felt this must have been the voice that haunted her dreams.

When she was a child, Pythia wondered how a fully grown woman could spring from the head of a man. She never saw Zeus—the other Lords did not come to the city, and if Athena visited her father the child Pythia never knew—but she imagined a giant with a great, cavernous skull.

When she was old enough to recognize the birth story as a metaphor, she spent time trying to unravel its meaning. Later, when she understood the truth, she knew she would only ever write of it in metaphor and speak of it not at all. 

Athena left her temple for years at a time, to walk among the people. Most of them never recognized her, so well did she pass as human. Every generation or so, she fell in love with some young human man or woman. She lived with her lover just until suspicions started to arise: until her lover began to age and she did not, until the young man eager to be a father began to suggest a visit to a fertility specialist, until the rumors about the Lord Athena and her penchant for human lovers circulated too near.

The first time Athena disappeared, Pythia was still too young to understand. She saw too much, but couldn't find the pattern behind the knowledge. When Athena returned, ten years later, Pythia was in a bright-eyed chamalla haze, visions and patterns dancing before her. The goddess drew back the curtain to Pythia's chamber, and Pythia saw pulsing red light.

"Welcome back," Pythia said, as though Athena had been out merely for the afternoon. But Pythia understood time by then: ten years were as meaningful and as irrelevant as an afternoon.

Athena sat without invitation and told Pythia about her time away, about her lover—a tall, strapping young man with white-blonde hair and skin bronzed by the sun. They were happy, Athena insisted. They were in love. But the relationship was temporary, for there were always sacrifices when gods and mortals lived and loved side by side.

Pythia was 25 years old then; she and the goddess appeared similar in age, two girlfriends catching up after time apart.

"This is why you stayed behind on Kobol," Pythia said, her tone definitive but "this" left intentionally vague. She had become accustomed to processing images simultaneously; she saw past, present, and future as one. She saw people boarding a ship, Athena alone remaining behind. She saw pulsing red light, heard the scrape of metal against metal. She saw the goddess locked in the embrace of a hundred successive golden men and women. She saw Athena sitting beside an aged Pythia's bedside as the latter lay dying, whispering, "You've been the greatest friend of my life."

Athena smiled sadly. "This," she replied. "Yes."

**

_And Athena climbed the high road to the Gates of Hera, where she watched the destruction of her people. She tore her clothes and clawed her skin with grief, and at the appearance of the great ship, she cast herself down upon the rocks below. And so it was that the immortal Athena found death on the eve of the Great Exodus._

_And the blaze pursued them, and the people of Kobol had a choice. To board the great ship, or take the high road through the rocky ridge. And the body of each tribe's leader was offered to the gods in the tomb of Athena._

The first thing Pythia learned after she came to the temple was to write in the past tense. "And so it was": the prophetic invocation reflecting the cycle of time. What was, is, and will be. She looked at time's patterns and wrote what she saw.

She had taken more chamalla than usual, and by the time she became aware of her immediate surroundings, Athena was there reading her manuscript. The goddess had disappeared again, walking among the people for almost fifteen years this time, but now she had returned. 

"So I die," Athena said in lieu of a greeting. She had no surprise in her voice; even she knew that no one is truly immortal. Athena rose and poured a glass of water, which she handed to Pythia with a small smile.

"You do," Pythia replied. "You did, you will." She drank gratefully and watched Athena sink back on the couch opposite. As Pythia had grown older and Athena remained unchanged, Pythia had moved from child protégé to best girlfriend to older sister to mother to wise, old aunt. The shifting roles never seemed to bother Athena, and increasingly Pythia felt as though she inhabited all these temporal versions of herself at once.

"I chose that death a long time ago," Athena mused. "Another ship, another exodus. I stayed." She smiled and quirked an eyebrow. "All this has happened before and will happen again, yes?"

Pythia returned the smile. "If that is so, were these really your choices?"

"I like to think so," answered Athena. "Even if it's always the same choice, I want to believe I have the right to make it each time. Or not make it. Even I must have faith in something—if only in my own agency."

They sat in silence for a while, as the haze faded from the edges of Pythia's vision and she relished, however briefly, this particular moment in the company of her old friend. Athena continued leafing through the manuscript, not exactly reading.

"What happened?" Athena asked, after returning for the third or fourth time to the passage describing her death. "Why did they leave me?"

Pythia saw the uprising, the people's bitterness at discovering the truth: that most of their gods had left long before, that they weren't gods at all. Athena would understand it as her beloved humanity, the people she chose, retracting their faith. She would be broken with grief. 

She wouldn't understand the fuller picture, the people needing distance from the truth to maintain their faith. They would continue to pray to a goddess named Athena; they would continue to believe she loved them enough to give up her own immortality.

"I didn't see what happened," Pythia lied. 

Athena's eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't push the question. "I don't need them to believe in me," she said softly, one ageless fingertip running along the edge of the page she held. "I just…I love them."

Pythia smiled, reached out to take Athena's hand. "You do, and have, and always will."

"Will you write that in your book?" Athena asked. "So they'll know?"

"Hmm," Pythia answered, non-committal. The book contained patterns and metaphors, the outline of truth. But for the most important things, words were too precise or too clumsy. In other cycles, prophets painted or sang or danced, and Pythia envied them. Pythia wrote, and left many stories untold. 

Time and prophecy threatened to blur her vision once more, but Pythia pushed it out of her mind, focusing instead on her friend's expectant face, on the solidity of Athena's hand clasped in her own. "Sometimes," Pythia said, "it is better not to know."


End file.
